


There's no form (to this thing that we keep)

by detentionlevel



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, M/M, Winnipeg Jets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:18:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detentionlevel/pseuds/detentionlevel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wheels fights Bergy, then asks David out for a drink. It's weird, since they haven't spoken in years, and David's not quite sure what to make of any of it. He goes anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's no form (to this thing that we keep)

_hey. im outside. want to catch up by any chance?_

The text must have hit his phone while he was showering, plans swirling through his head like water down the drain. Get drunk, forget about the game - _no, don’t forget about the_ game, _David, the game was good_ \- forget about this week and all the unwanted memories swirling around, clenching his heart like a fist.

It’s hard to breathe when he reads the text. No, he shouldn’t want to see Blake, shouldn’t want to catch up or whatever. It’s been years and years and (David, it’s only been four) years, he’d forced himself to stop thinking about Blake ages ago. Winnipeg and Boston may as well be light-years apart for how much they’d seen each other that first year, communication dwindling until they rarely even texted at all. It died after David lifted the Cup, was buried when David sought comfort from his new linemates. He’d tried so very hard to stop thinking about Blake at all.

But maybe he’s struggling from Tuesday, seeing Milan strong and happy and comfortable in his new space on his team in L.A., golden and shining in Boston’s eyes even yet; maybe he thinks about how Milan just waved at him from a distance, barely acknowledged him as his former city sang his praises despite their own team losing. He thinks about how the new gallery gods don’t react at all to the sight of Blake, never really have. There was no tribute video when Atlanta returned to Boston that first time, no hero-worship, just fights and goals and the knowledge that Blake was well and truly not his - theirs - anymore. (And it makes him think: would Boston care if he left, even? Or would they replace him as fast as they replaced his Blake?)

So maybe he’s weak. Or weakened, at least. Something. 

He goes. Maybe he’ll regret it; maybe he won’t. Right now he doesn’t care.

The elevator ride seems like forever, and when he steps outside into the biting Winnipeg cold, Blake doesn’t notice him at first. David waits a moment, collecting himself, looking. Blake stands half in a shadow, leaning on the brick wall of the hotel, the streetlight’s harsh white glow throwing his face into stark relief. There’s something about him now that David never expected to see - a hardness, some edge to him that David’s not sure he likes. He wears his new team like armor, like he’s fighting to prove the world wrong; he’s filled out, bigger and stronger than he ever was as a Bruin, when they mocked him constantly for being so, so easy to knock off the puck. Weariness sits in his eyes and makes them cold; David had avoided Blake’s eyes on purpose all game, as always, counting his blessings that the Jets were in the West these days and they only had to avoid each other’s eyes twice a year, now. 

He’s afraid, almost, to see that icy stare turned on him; he suddenly wants to run, wants to go back to the warmth of his hotel room and his original plan of drinking to forget the night, wants to keep his precious memories of Blake intact. He wants to remember Blake, his Blake, the big lanky Midwestern Bruin with the easy smile and twinkling eyes; he wants to remember every inch of Blake’s body, every reaction he knew he could pull from Blake so easily by the end. He doesn’t want this new person with the hard eyes to look at him, doesn’t want to connect those eyes with his past knowledge and think about the fact that maybe everything about Blake is different now; maybe his reactions are different, maybe David wouldn’t be able to identify every imperfection on his body, maybe they wouldn’t fit together perfectly the way they did. 

Blake turns, and for a moment David dreads it, but Blake’s face softens immediately into something that could almost be called a smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

David can’t believe how uncomfortable this is.

“You didn’t bring Marchy with you, did you? I don’t really want to die tonight,” Blake half-jokes, and David looks at him funny.

“No, why...why would I bring Marchy, he’s probably busy anyways?” David replies, and Blake shakes his head. 

“Nevermind. Um, I brought my car, are you up for grabbing a drink?”

David is loathe to wander too far from the hotel in this city, but - he trusts Blake, after all. That hasn’t changed.

“Sure.”

~

He stares out the window as Blake drives, wheels crunching over the icy remains of what must be last week’s snow. The silence isn’t comfortable, but he’s not even sure what to say - why had Blake gone after Marchy? Why had Bergy jumped in? What was this all about?

It’s a quick drive to a little bar called G; the hostess guides them to a small VIP area upon seeing and smiling at Blake. He orders drinks for both of them without really thinking about it, obviously, and David hates the little thrill that runs through him when Blake orders his favorite whiskey for him and then blushes, realizing what he’d done. Blake remembers his tastes. Maybe he’s going through the same thing, here.

Maybe. Maybe.

He’s mostly avoided Blake’s eyes until now, making meaningless small talk, but when their drinks arrive, David takes a long gulp before looking right at him.

“So are you going to tell me what this is all about? Why you suddenly are making a big effort, why you fought Bergy tonight and why Marchy was yelling at you?” he demands quietly. “Bergy might be hurt.”

“Shit, I didn’t mean - I didn’t mean for that to happen,” Blake stammers, eyes wide. “I didn’t even hit him that hard. Brad came after me about….about you, and I wanted to kill him for it,” he admits. 

“About me?”

“Yeah, saying shit about how your new linemates never went offsides, that must mean they really love you and know you, unlike me, ever. And some worse shit I’m not going to repeat,” Blake says quietly, and the hardness is back in his eyes as he rolls them, takes a drink.

David gapes. He’s going to kill Marchy. And that explains Bergy stepping in, it explains everything.

“You said something back about him being with Patrice, didn’t you.”

“I might have,” Blake says, a note of stubbornness hanging off the edge of his voice (and there, he sounds just like the old Wheels, a little bit petulant but always well-meaning. And maybe he didn’t mean too well by this, but it’s _Marchy,_ so.) 

“It’s Marchy,” David repeats his thought out loud, softly, putting his hand on Blake’s, and he can feel Blake’s uncertainty at the whole thing. “He’ll use anything against anyone if he thinks it’ll help our team. You know this. You were here.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been almost four years, David,” Blake says miserably, taking a long sip of his drink. “Four years is a long time for something to stick in your mind like that. And it’s not like I stuck in yours.”

“That’s not true,” David says, fierceness in his voice, because how could Blake, when HE’s the one who’s changed? “They traded you. _You_ left. I’ve always been here. You could have come back, in the offseason, over breaks. I missed you,” he adds, gentle and honest, and he sees the moment when Blake’s face goes from defensive to broken, and takes genuine satisfaction in it.

“I wanted to be part of that team,” he says sadly, and David hates it, hates everything. “You know I did.”

“I know,” David clings to Blake’s hand like a lifeline, “I know.”

They sit in silence for moments, unsure what this is, and each second feels like a lifetime. David uses his free hand to finish his drink, the warm liquid burning pleasantly down his throat. He can feel Blake’s eyes on him as he swallows, and as quick as that everything comes into focus: he knows where he wants this night to go, and he knows where he wants his life to go from there. 

“Wheels, come back to my hotel with me,” he requests simply, and Blake nods, almost grateful. The drive back is quiet, again, but the silence this time feels familiar, even if the city around them doesn’t.

(David gets lost in a memory as they go, sitting in the backseat of Blake’s car as he and Phil belt out some cheesy pop song on the radio, watching the trees give way to the Boston skyline as they drive home from practice in Wilmington; the sun is shining and their playoff hopes are bright, and David wants to cling to this moment forever, plans to tell Blake about his awkward crush soon enough. It’s not a week later that he’s on a plane home to the Czech Republic, all his words left unspoken, the team’s year shattered into fragments behind him. It’s a good memory, if bittersweet, and being driven around by Blake always reminded him of that moment, every time. He’s glad to see that hasn’t changed.)

Parking takes no time at all, and by this hour, there’s barely anyone around; Blake keeps looking around furtively once they get into the hotel lobby, and David can’t help it. He grins.

“Marchy and Bergy aren’t going to jump out at you from behind a corner, Wheels,” he deadpans as they get on the elevator, and Blake looks sidelong at him, eliciting a giggle. Once David starts laughing, too, he can’t stop; everything is so ridiculous. He’s missed Blake so much it _hurts_ ; the pain had all mostly been out of his system after four years, but now, in such close proximity, it’s all back full-force, slamming him like a tidal wave. 

He doesn’t kiss Blake or anything, when they get back to his room; he’s afraid of drowning in the sensation of it, too much too fast too soon. Blake is pliant, willing, and it’s easy for David to push him against a wall and just bury his face against Blake’s chest with a sigh. Blake pulls him in close, presses his lips to the top of David’s head, arms around David’s waist; he mumbles something unintelligible that David doesn’t catch, but just the rumble of his voice is soothing. 

This could be closure, or it could be one of a million different things. They’re different people than they were four years ago - both hardened by being ripped away from each other, David realizes. He doesn’t want to ask what this is, wants to delay that inevitable pain but at the same time he has to _know_ , at some point. David doesn’t do one-night stands, and if that’s what this is…

“You’re thinking too hard, I can practically hear your brain overheating,” Blake teases, and David rolls his eyes. “Same old Krej,” he adds affectionately, “you really haven’t changed.” He laughs as David presses his forehead to Blake’s shoulder and groans, dramatic.

“I just…” he pauses, mustering up the wherewithal to say exactly what he wants. “I don’t want this to be a one time thing, if we do this. I don’t want you to just fuck me and leave forever, again. I want us to talk, to not go three years without even a text again. I looked, today. Our last text is from fucking 2012, Blake,” David grumps, and Blake flushes, looking away. 

“We were pretty stupid, huh,” Blake admits, and David looks at him, nods. “I’d really like to have you back in my life,” he says softly, and David smiles.

“Good.”

Kissing Blake again is simultaneously the greatest and worst thing ever, David thinks as soon as he starts, pushing Blake’s shoulders against the wall and standing on tiptoes to reach Blake’s mouth. It’s not like he’s been celibate since Blake, far from it, but Blake is like a drink of water on a hot day, and suddenly David’s body is singing with need, every nerve-ending attuned to the feeling of Blake’s hands clutching desperately against his ribs like he’s been conditioned for it.

“I want to see you, all of you,” David murmurs against Blake’s mouth and Blake gasps against his, pushing David’s hoodie off his shoulders in response. He watches, hungry, as Blake steps over to the bed and undresses, and David’s heart hurts when he sees that Blake has new tattoos, a new scar on his shoulderblade, a bruise blossoming under his collarbone. (He wants to put more bruises around it, he’s pretty sure that one is from Bergy’s fist, and he doesn’t like the idea of that mark sitting alone as a memory for Blake from the game tonight.)

He strips quickly, the urge to press himself close to Blake again overwhelming; Blake is waiting for him with open arms when he’s done, toppling them both to the bed. David ends up laying on his side with his face pressed into Blake’s chest, Blake wrapped around him, and the smell and sight of him is so much. Senses flooded by it all, David shakes a little, years of muscle memory shaking off the rust. He tries to mask it by pressing a finger into the blue-tinted Bergy-inflicted bruise he’d been looking at, trailing fingers along Blake’s collarbone, after; Blake hisses, clutching him tighter. 

It’s not hard to get Blake on his back, not hard for David to climb on top of him, leaning down to press kisses to every inch of Blake’s skin. He catalogues every imperfection on Blake’s body, sorting them into categories in his mind; this one, he recognizes - this one, he doesn’t. He maps his way down Blake’s body, spanning Blake’s ribs with his hands, relishing the newness of his filled-out form. So much of this is familiar (Blake still squirms and giggles when David bites at the skin over his hipbone, his eyes wide when David kisses his fingertips, teasing him and teasing him until Blake snaps), it’s like….driving, or riding a bike, or something - he didn’t realize it would be so easy and so fulfilling until he was here, doing it, dancing his fingers over Blake’s skin.

The sounds Blake makes when David teases him were always one of David’s favorite things about doing this, especially when he finally stops messing around and takes Blake’s cock in his mouth. He rests the head on his lower lip, sticking his tongue out to toy with the slit; Blake swears into the heavy air of the hotel room, fists gripped tight in the sheets, and he’s so hard already, David marvels; not like he’s not in the same state, anyway, but it feels so good to know he can still play Blake’s body like an instrument. 

“Krej, David, your _mouth,_ oh my god,” Blake breathes as David lowers his mouth onto Blake’s cock. The heady taste and smell of him fills David’s senses, making his mouth water; he whines a little in the back of his throat, desperate, needy. Blake _knows,_ does his part, threads his hands through David’s hair and tugs gently, guiding David’s head up and down, setting a rhythm.

If they had more time, if David were less tired, he’d probably beg Blake to fuck him but he’s not sure they’re back at that point yet, not sure they’ve talked enough so he just settles in to take Blake like this, looking up at Blake through hooded eyes. It’s all he can do to not just tell Blake to fuck his mouth like he used to, but as David digs his fingers into Blake’s hips, he seems to get the hint, and David sighs, eyes slipping closed as Blake’s hips piston up gently but quickly, pressing his own cock against the mattress in desperation.

Blake doesn’t take long - adrenaline from the game, the excitement of the night in general is getting to both of them, and he tugs on David’s hair in warning before he comes. It’s a bit too late, and drops of come splash hot on David’s chin; Blake stares even as his chest heaves with exertion, and very quickly, before David can do it himself, he reaches out with one hand to wipe the stray liquid off David’s face with his thumb. It’s too intimate of a thing for tonight, but David can’t help turning into Blake’s hand to clean the come off with his tongue, and Blake grins helplessly.

“Come here,” he insists, voice scratchy, and David whines his name, crawling up the bed to curl up next to Blake again. His cock hangs fat and heavy between his legs, and Blake teases him at first, running a finger up and down the length of it. This, this is what he’s missed, and he knows he’s thought this a million times tonight - squirming in Blake’s arms until Blake relents and strokes him roughly, letting him rut into the circle of Blake’s hand until he comes with a shout, muffled in Blake’s chest. He bites the skin there as he finishes, right next to the bruise like he’d planned, and licks over it after, delighting in the hiss Blake lets out at the sharp prick of pain.

They lay together like that, curled together after Blake wipes his palm on the comforter behind him, their legs entwined, David’s face buried in Blake’s shoulder; “We should talk about this,” Blake says softly, and David nods.

“We leave at 7. Stay over? We can get up and talk in the morning,” David pleads sleepily, and Blake chuckles. 

“I lost years of this, you think I’m going to say no to your face?” he teases, and David snorts, pinching him in the side. “Ow, fuck you!” Blake yelps, and David giggles, reaching up to pull Blake’s face close for a kiss.

\--

David sleeps the whole way to Minnesota the next day, burrowed into Blake’s oversized hoodie that he’d been wearing the night before; when the team lands, Pasta nudges him awake, a soft, affectionate look in his eyes, and David smiles back, affirming that he’s up and ready to go. He switches his phone out of airplane mode, and it vibrates twice, indicating he’s received a text.

_ur taking me to the beach when i come to visit in june. i’m tired of being landlocked :) ps - miss u. thanks for last night. and for talking this morning._

David smiles, shaking his head. Pasta reads over his shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows; David shoves him away and Pasta laughs, gathering his bags to get off the plane. It takes a moment, but David responds before gathering his own gear and heading out;

_come in may, we have a lot of catching up to do. :) miss u too. i’m sorry it took so long. let’s not do that again._

He gets back a string of heart-eyes emojis almost immediately, and something in his heart curls up and twinges happily. They’re still a little bit broken, they’ll probably always be that way, and what they have now will never be the same as it was back before? But they’re back in each other’s lives again, and that’s all that matters.

As he steps off the plane, David makes a mental note to thank Bergy for everything.

**Author's Note:**

> LISTEN I JUST. BLAKE WHEELER FOUGHT PATRICE BERGERON THE OTHER NIGHT TWO NIGHTS AFTER MILAN LUCIC HAD HIS HOMECOMING TOUR AT TD GARDEN AND I AM DROWNING IN NINE MILLION EMOTIONS so here, have a lil' fic about my years-old OG bruins otp. I fully acknowledge the self-indulgence of this fic and I hope a few of you enjoy it regardless, anyway. :)


End file.
